


Fundamental Things Apply

by TheLastGoodGoldfish



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, domestic crime solving fluff, post-MKAT future fic, so the thing is I was watching Murder She Wrote.......
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastGoodGoldfish/pseuds/TheLastGoodGoldfish
Summary: Have you heard the one about the con-artists at the country club?





	Fundamental Things Apply

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CMackenzie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMackenzie/gifts).



> Dedicated to the only person who understands the depths of my pessimism ❤

Mrs. Jessica Redgrave—a widow in her late middle age (and a wealthy one, according to reliable sources)—is seated at Table Two on the upper terrace, overlooking the outdoor tennis courts and the saltwater swimming pool. That, if anything, is an indication that she’s come to Montrachet with the intent to socialize: if she were looking for solitude, she would have opted for the vineyard view. 

Mrs. Redgrave isn’t a club member. She’s visiting—rumor has it, staying in the cottage of some eccentric billionaire who’s out of the country at the moment. Phillip, the clubhouse manager, advises that Mrs. Redgrave is traveling alone (ideal), but for a big ugly dog... her husband having passed some years ago. She arrived just yesterday and seems eager enough to make friends. For today’s luncheon, she’s been seated at the Watross’s table, along with Chris Watross (the prehistoric real estate magnate), that perky little heiress— _what’s-her-name?_ —Chloe Knells, and an older guy apparently called Jim Spenser (who doesn’t matter at all: he may be wearing expensive linen and a vintage Rolex, but staff overheard him mention a _pension_ , and Alex isn’t here for anyone on a _fixed income)_.

That leaves one empty seat at Table Two, but not for long. A quick bribe to the hostess ensures that Sophia is seated in the empty chair beside Mr. Spenser, and the game is set.

Like a pro, Sophia preens and poses in her bikini, scantily concealed by a shimmery sheer slip dress. She flips her long chestnut hair, bats her big brown eyes at the gentlemen, giggles and gossips with young Chloe Knells, and, all in all, puts on an exceptional show: the work of a master. Certainly, it’s all enough to intrigue Chris Watross. He can’t stop staring, which is of course exactly as intended. The first of the lunch plates has just been removed when staff appears at Watross’s elbow, beckoning the lecherous old prune away on an “urgent matter.” That’ll be _Mrs_. Watross’s doing; Astrid has spies _everywhere_.

With Watross gone, his patio seat—right beside Mrs. Redgrave—is left enticingly vacant.

Alex dawdles a few more minutes at the bar, finishes a vodka soda, and then makes his way over to the table.

It’s a glorious day: a reasonable eighty degrees—miraculous for this time of year—all crisp and sunny. The veranda and the courtyard below are both alight with activity. The rich and elite mingle with or snub one another, basking in the finest frivolous amenities that money can buy. The more athletic set are out on the tennis courts or golf course or stables, or else enjoying one of the three swimming pools that Montrachet Country Club boasts. Far more of the guests are lounging around, however, taking advantage of the temperature controlled sunshine and the poolside service.

This is the world that Alexander Selden the Third was born into, and it’s not a lifestyle he plans on sacrificing any time soon. Which—given his current circumstances—requires some social maintenance.

Fortunately, social maintenance is Alex’s (and Sophia’s) area of expertise. He could _Price is Right_ the economic value of every socialite and tech mogul in the Cabana strip, and while that information is interesting enough in its own right, he has to be careful. Most of these people are regular members (too well connected for Alex’s purposes) or guests (models and gigolos: monetarily worthless). Plus, everyone’s a little on edge of late, since Devon Howard’s diamonds went missing from her villa. Sophia got sloppy on that; they managed to pin it on a housekeeper before anyone caught on, but they’ll have to be more selective in their targets from now on.

That’s where Mrs. Jessica Redgrave comes in, and she couldn’t be more perfect.

Alex sidles up to Table Two, pretends to do a double take, “Chloe Knells? Hey! I haven’t seen you at all this year!”

Chloe, who has been chatting idly with Sophia, looks up and breaks into a sunny smile. She’s got to be close to thirty, but with her large green eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion, she still has that credulous ingénue look.

“Alex Selden! It’s been _forever_! You have to sit down. Take Mr. Watross’s seat, I think he’s ‘ _in’_ for the afternoon. Have you had lunch?”

“A liquid one—you think it’s too late to get a bite?” Alex takes the proffered chair, while Chloe flags down a waiter.

“I’m sure it’s not,” she chirps. Chloe’s a cute young thing, auburn haired and animated. Alex wasn’t exaggerating when he said she’d been scarce of late: she’s a few years out of law school and apparently plans on _working_ for a living. _To each their own._ He’d assumed she’d let her club membership lapse, but her presence serves as a convenient segue into an acquaintance with his _actual_ target.

“And you won’t call me an old man if I order a salad?” he teases. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“ _Please_ , you can’t be a day over thirty five,” coos Mrs. Redgrave, to his left. Her eyes are hidden behind large, dark sunglasses, but her rose-painted lips twitch, amused. (Sophia rolls her eyes, but it’s subtle.)

“You’re nice... but I’m _five years_ over thirty-five, Ms...”

“Redgrave. Jessica Redgrave.” They shake hands over the table.

“Alex Selden.”

“You already know Chloe, I see,” says Mrs. Redgrave. “And Miss Bart...?”

“Oh, I know Sophia. We go way back. How are ya, Soph?”

Sophia flashes her daughter-of-a-super-model smile. “Not too bad. I beat Chester at tennis this morning and I’m still riding that high.” With Watross’s removal, Sophia has already inclined herself towards the other male... that Spenser guy—not because there’s any _real_ money to be had from a retired middle class insurance broker, but the fact that he’s hanging around the Redgrave widow means he’ll have to be kept distracted, in case Redgrave prefers the company of someone her own age. _God forbid._

Then again, Spenser appears comfortably distracted all on his own. He sits angled away from the table, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, wears a Milan straw fedora dipped low, hardly inviting conversation, and he’s reading. Anyway, his tortoise-framed clubmaster sunglasses are pointed downward at a book (an _honest-to-God book),_ so one _assumes_ he’s reading. It’s an actual hard-cover, paper-paged _book,_ too, like a _dinosaur_. Spenser doesn’t even look up when Mrs. Redgrave introduces him, just flattens his mouth in something approximating a smile and then lifts a glass of whisky to it.

“This is Mr. Spenser,” says Mrs. Redgrave, “He’s visiting from—Idaho, was it?”

“Ohio.”

“That’s right. Akron.” Redgrave sips her white wine, and her expression telegraphs exactly what she thinks of _that_.

She’s a slight, attractive woman of about sixty, wearing her money discreetly but stylishly. She’s in a black silk top, bare shouldered, with a white pashmina and matching harem pants. She’s got a big black hat to block out the sun, and a fringe of ashy blond hair peaks out, cropped fashionably short. Everything about her screams _old money_ , though Alex’s research tells him otherwise, which means she simply has good taste. She’s wearing a diamond ring and a gold band—likely from the late husband—but she wears them on her right hand. Call it _half-mourning_.

There’s not much info to be had on Jessica Redgrave—which shows that she’s probably worth a lot. Anyone who breaks 100 Mill will have their digital fingerprints copyrighted and cloaked. All in all, Alex could do (and has done) a lot worse in the aging widow department.

Chloe manages to summon a waiter, and Alex orders a Cobb Salad and another vodka soda. Then, of Mrs. Redgrave, he asks: “Are you a new member here?”

“Oh, no, just visiting. I’m staying at a friend’s.” She’s coy—the “friend” must be someone important. “What do you do, Mr. Selden?”

 _Mostly? Wealthy older women with generous spending limits._ “Call me Alex. Please,” he says. “I’m in philanthropy.”

“That sounds exciting.” She leans forward, elbows over the table. Laces her fingers together—nails painted mauve— under chin... _sometimes it’s almost too easy..._

“I thought so too, when I started,” he says. “It’s mostly a lot of meetings and fundraisers.”

“I know what you mean. My husband Frank passed away three years ago...”

 _“I’m sorry_.”

“—Oh thank you. But the old idiot had the terrible judgment to name me as his successor, so now I spend half my year calling in to these endless board meetings and financial disclosure meetings... What is it you do, Sophie?”

Sophia startles at being addressed and is so caught off guard that she makes the misstep of correcting her: “ _Sophia_.” She hadn’t expected the attention and was busy squinting at the book in Mr. Spenser’s hand—doubtless trying to find _something_ to say to the old guy. Alex doesn’t envy her... from what he can tell, the book’s about... _organic vegetable gardening?_ Jesus.  

Sophia clears her throat, regains her composure. “I’m an artist.”

“Painting?”

“Performance art.”

“How fascinating.”

“How long are you planning on staying at Montrachet, Mrs. Redgrave?” Alex interjects—best to let her know at once that, though twenty-nine and more than typically gorgeous, Sophia isn’t any competition for his attention.

“ _Jessica_ ,” she amends warmly. He can’t tell for sure behind the sunglasses, but he’s pretty sure she’s refocused on him. _Good_. “At least a week, but maybe a little longer.”

“I told her she _has_ to stay until next weekend,” Chloe pipes up. “For the gala. I haven’t been to one since I was a teenager, but they were always _the best_ here.”

“You won’t want to miss it,” agrees Alex. His salad and drink arrive. “Jack,” he says to the waiter, “Another one of those for Mrs. Redgrave.” He points at her wineglass, and she smiles appreciatively.

From there, things could hardly go smoother. Chloe is mostly occupied by the screen in her palm and offers little distraction, eventually getting up to take a call and wandering away altogether. Poor Sophia does her best with Spenser, though he really doesn’t provide much to work with. If Alex weren’t otherwise occupied with Redgrave, he would tell his partner to cut her losses and go follow up with Shelley Kirkpatrick, who’d seemed _very_ interested in investing in one of Sophia's performance art pieces last week.

For her part, Mrs. Redgrave is friendly and engaging—if not as aggressive as some of the other widows her age. Alex isn’t concerned: he’s wearing well-tailored tan Armani this afternoon, but she hasn’t seen him in his tennis shorts yet. The older women _love_ that.

She chats knowledgeably about music and food and even pop culture. Her wine selection implies an exceptional palate, and she tells him that she’s just finished reading the latest Sadie Foxx novel, so they have plenty to talk about. Really, it won’t even be a chore socializing with her this spring.

Also—like plenty of other recent widows—she has that way of softening when she talks about her late husband. Alex considers himself a romantic, and he finds it really very sweet.

“Frank and I were never blessed that way,” she tells him, when he asks if she has any children. _Good... inheritance-eyeing offspring tend to complicate things_. “We were together thirty years—just the two of us. You know I didn’t even want to go out with him when he first asked, but he was _so_ persistent. He was a little older—I thought he was just another boring suit. I was waiting tables, but _trying_ to be a model. Deluded, obviously, I’m too short, but when you’re twenty, everything seems possible. Anyway, when Frank and I first started seeing each other, he would shower me with gifts. Gave me everything I wanted. In thirty years, he never _once_ denied me any single thing I asked for. The man could _not_ say ‘no’ to me... not for anything. He was the _perfect_ husband. Right up until the end... just a few weeks before he passed, we had a disagreement about this painting. It’s a beautiful picture of the Pacific—this young artist I adore, and I wanted to hang it in the dining room. But for whatever reason, my Frank didn’t like it. We went back and forth and back and forth... Frank had terrible taste. No eye for art. He didn’t want to hang it. But... after a while... he said to me, ‘ _Jessica, hang the picture up. What’s most important to me is your happiness._ ’ And you know I’ve always felt _so_ blessed that I have that beautiful, wonderful memory of him to treasure, especially since he was taken from me so suddenly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, it was very sad. A surfing accident. He toppled off his board and hit his head, and the waves pulled him under. In his later years, my husband had trouble accepting the limitations of his age...”

Speaking of limitations of age, at that moment, Mr. Spenser suddenly finds himself overcome by a coughing fit, loud and violent enough to disrupt everyone at the table.

“Are you okay? Do you want some water?” Sophia asks quickly, while Alex attempts to hail a waiter.

Spenser waves them off, thumping his chest and shaking his head. Mrs. Redgrave sips her wine and turns away, peering across the patio, as though she finds the whole scene very distasteful. When Spenser has recovered enough to speak, he leans forward, taps his palm on the tabletop and croaks, “You know, I think I’ll go clear my throat at the bar. See if I can get a decent scotch.”

“I’ll come with you,” offers Sophia, getting to her feet, though Alex isn’t entirely sure that’s necessary. Old Spenser isn’t going to be any competition for Mrs. Redgrave’s focus... but maybe Soph thinks she can pry a check or two out of him for “studio space.” Spenser doesn’t _look_ like a patron of the arts, but maybe she’s bored and likes a challenge—there’s no accounting for taste.

The old guy steps aside to let Sophia pass in front of him, and then they’re gone—leaving Alex fortuitously alone at the table with Mrs. Redgrave.

“Have you been a member here long?” she asks, as he finishes up the last bites of his salad.

“Since I was a kid, actually. My mother was very involved with the club, when she was still alive.”

“When did she pass?”

“Twelve years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. It’s been a while, but I still miss her.” _The old witch._

“And you've stayed very involved in the club?” Alex isn’t sure where she’s going with this—trying for a membership, maybe?

“Less than I’d like,” he says. “After college I wasted most of my twenties running around Europe, until I had to come back to run my father’s company. That kept me pretty busy for a few years, but I didn’t care for it.”

“Can’t say I blame you.”

“Well, I got out of it after a while.” – _Not that he had much choice..._

“...And now you’re in philanthropy.”

“It’s my true calling. I manage a handful of funds and help broker charitable projects around the world. It’s a lot better than the boardroom.”

“Almost anything is,” she agrees.

“It’s completely changed my worldview, getting into philanthropy.”

“Really?” Mrs. Redgrave raises her eyebrows; her sunglasses are momentarily tipped low enough on her nose, that he just glimpses the blue eyes behind them. “Learning more about the injustices that plague our species?”

“Well, yes and no. The main thing I’m learning, more and more, is how _kind_ people really are. Humans are basically good—they want to give. They want to help. I’m lucky enough to enable that.”

Mrs. Redgrave smiles slowly. “I just bet you are,” she says, and finishes the last swallow of her _Pinot Grigio_. She readjusts her sunglasses. Alex can’t quite tell if she’s genuinely amused or impressed—hopefully, of course, the latter. This sales pitch has yet to fail him, and there’s a lovely new line of Italian silk he’s been eyeing... “Are you staying here at Montrachet?” she asks.

“Not on the property, but I live in the community on the hill.” He points.

“So I’ll be seeing a lot of you during my visit?”

There can be little mistake about her intention there. “I hope so,” he says. “Do you have dinner plans tonight? I have a table at the restaurant, and if you don’t have another obligation...”

“Nothing I wasn’t already scheming to break,” she says, glowing. Even forty years after the fact, it’s abundantly clear how this woman went from waitress to socialite overnight. Alex beams right back at her—she really is ideal. Richer than God, childless, recently widowed, but not _too_ recently—still in love with the memory of a supposedly Sainted Husband, but _just_ lonely enough to revel in the attention of a younger man. You couldn’t script a better type. This has all the makings of a tidy, uncomplicated arrangement; no one gets hurt, and no one gets caught.

They chat for a few more minutes, before Sophia and Mr. Spenser return from the bar. Sophia at last seems to have worked her magic, as she’s walking arm-in-arm with the older man, chatting airily through their prolonged way over.

“The synthetic fertilizers will do in a pinch,” Spenser’s saying, as he pulls Sophia’s chair out for her. “But you really want organic. Better for the soil texture, long term.”

“Of course,” says Sophia, and she totally sells it. “It’s really fascinating...” To the rest of the table, “Jim’s telling me about his tomato garden.”

“ _So_ fascinating” murmurs Mrs. Redgrave, and Alex hides a smile. Not that Spenser notices much—he’s returning to his chair—decent scotch obtained—fidgeting and fussing to get comfortable. Sophia doesn’t linger, however, once she’s collected her tote bag.

“I’d better head out—I have an appointment at the spa. It was so nice meeting you, Jim... Mrs. Redgrave...”

“Y’know...” Alex checks his watch, “I think I’ll walk with you. I’ve got a meeting at Fairchild’s with a new donor for one of my funds...” He starts to rise, “Jessica, it was a _pleasure_ meeting you.” He takes one of her hands in both of his, lowers his voice slightly, “And I’ll see you at dinner tonight. Seven-thirty?”

“Looking forward to it,” she answers warmly.

 

Alex waits until they’ve reached the clubhouse, before he speaks freely. “Soph, she’s perfect.”

Sophia’s looking at her screen, but she glances up to ask: “Kids?”

“Nope.”

“A big, charitably inclined heart?”

“Naturally.”

She chuckles. “Well at least you won’t have to play board-games with Mrs. Weir anymore.”

“It’s not the board-games I mind—it’s fending off the rest of it.” Alex shudders.

“Won’t be a problem with Mrs. Redgrave, I suspect.”

“Mrs. Redgrave isn’t _ninety-two_.” They reach the elevator and Sophia taps the _down_ arrow. The spa’s on the first floor, and Alex will have to pass it on the way to the garage. “What in hell were you talking about with that Spenser guy?”

“His garden.”

“ _Seriously_?”

“He’s very devoted to it,” she says dryly. Then softens a little to add, “It’s actually kinda sweet.”

The elevator arrives, empty, and they step on. Alex stares at her, surprised, because he knows his friend-and-business-associate well enough to guess what that tone means. “Seriously, Soph? _Old MacDonald_ back there?”

Sophia shrugs. “He’s got that silver fox thing going on—you _know_ I’m right. Besides, you should be glad I have a taste for older men, or this whole arrangement wouldn’t work very well.” She notices his look. “Oh calm down, not that it matters. He’s a retired _insurance_ broker... he’s not worth the bribe to the hostess for a seat at his dinner table.”

“Not to mention a complete bore. Unless you have a new found passion for growing your own tomatoes that I’m not aware of.”

“I thought it was cute.” She chews on a fingernail reminiscently, while the elevator doors close before them. “They all have their boring hobbies—at least this one’s not into antique cars. If I have to have one more godawful conversation about European engineering, I _swear_...” Sophia trails off, shuddering and hair-flipping at the thought. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure he was just blowing me off. He’s in love with his wife, I think.”

“He told you he was married?” asks Alex.

“Didn’t have to. I can always tell the marrieds who love their spouses. They make eye contact and don’t act all martyred about it.”

“Maybe he’s gay.”

“Ooo, you think so?”

“You’re sick, kiddo.”

Sophia nods matter-of-factly. “I know. Lucky for you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Logan refrains from speaking until he’s absolutely certain that those two con-artists are out of earshot, flouncing all proud of themselves into the clubhouse. _Amateurs._ Even then, he keeps his tone low enough that any busy-body passerby won’t overhear when he says: “It’s still a ‘no’ on that ocean painting, Mars.”

His wife, who is flashing her Mrs. Jessica Redgrave _Widowed and Ready to Mingle_ smile across the patio, drops her shoulders and turns back to glare at him. “It’s _pretty_.”

“It’s _not_. Hallway by the guestroom, and that’s my final offer.”

“Dining room, and that’s _my_ final offer.”

“It’s tacky.”

“ _You’re_ tacky.”

“Mature.”

“ _You’re_ mature.”

Logan picks up his book, shifts away from her somewhat, and pretends to read, so that to the casual observer he and Veronica (or rather—Jim Spenser and Jessica Redgrave) will appear to be two people whose relationship is strictly geographic. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Veronica lean back in her patio chair, face tilted upward, as though her only interest at present were sunbathing. 

Belying the serene set of her features, she grumbles, “You could at least _try_ to sell your cover.”

Logan play-acts studying a passage in his book. “Hmm?”

“You’re supposed to be a retired insurance broker. A _salesman._ Company man. Bourgeoisie and... pompous. A sultry conwoman is trying to seduce you, and you’re over there talking about your damn tomatoes.”

Logan frowns. “So you’re saying I should let her seduce me?”

He assumes that the responding look she sends him behind her sunglasses is irritated. “You’re supposed to keep her distracted,” is all she says.

“You got your dinner invitation, didn’t you? Besides, that’s what you get for writing my cover story without consulting me. _Insurance_? Come on.” He flips a page in his book, just for show. “Speaking of—must you _always_ kill me off?”

“I didn’t kill you off.”

“ _Surfing accident?_ ”

“I killed Frank Redgrave off. _You_ are no Frank Redgrave, Echolls.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Frank Redgrave let me hang the ocean painting in the dining room.”

"He had no taste."

"Frank Redgrave let me have my every heart's desire."

“Look where that got him.”

"...Always gave me my way and never told me 'no.'"

"Sounds great, maybe _I_ should've married him."

"You weren't his type."

"Well now I  _know_ he had no taste."

Veronica snorts. “Widows work best,” she explains, softer. “Dead husbands are less complicated than ex-husbands.”

"Have much experience there?"

"Mmm... not yet, but give me a minute."

 _As if that leach-in-kitsch-linen would care if his mark was STILL_ _married._ Logan doesn’t give his wife the satisfaction of hearing that particular brand of pettiness verbally articulated, but sometimes he’d swear she can _sense_ these things. In his periphery, he notices the ends of her lips twitch upward. What he actually says is, “Well at least when your case blew up my vacation _this time_ , you picked somewhere with a pool.”

“We’re still going on the trip," Veronica insists. "We're just... detouring. And this isn’t a case. I am retired. This is a favor for the kid.”

“Sure, it’s always a favor for the kid. Last time you did a ‘favor for the kid,’ I was poisoned, lost a Cartier watch, and _you_ busted up your knee.” As a matter of reflex, he almost reaches out to pat the knee in question, but he remembers in time that they’re _supposed_ to be strangers.

“She’s _your_ niece,” says Veronica.

“So shouldn’t I get veto rights over favors?”

“You know better than that.”

“I swear I wrote something into that prenup...” he mutters.

“ _You_ wouldn’t sign a prenup.”

“I was banking on your oil wells in Texas striking big.”

“I lied about those.”

“And the beachfront property in Nebraska?”

“Oh, honey.”

Logan chuckles and gives up on the book, shifting back in his chair to face the table. Veronica purses her lips—the only sign that she disapproves of his relaxation of their cover—but doesn’t comment. “Surfing accident?” he asks again, then sips his drink, which is mostly ice water now.

“All you rich Californians surf,” she says lightly.

"I'm surprised you didn't have me eaten by a shark."

“You're surprised I didn't have  _Frank Redgrave_ eaten by a shark... that's not bad. I may use that.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “So—this Redgrave guy was in business, hmm?”

“Mhm.”

“Pragmatic choice of spouse.”

“You sayin’ I’m a golddigger?”

“Not at all. I’m saying you like a nice, straight-laced, practical kinda guy.”

“That’s right.”

“ _Predictable_.”

“Dependable.”

“I bet you and Good Old Frank had separate bedrooms on opposite sides of your three-story townhouse.”

“Well, at our age, I’d much rather curl up with a glass of warm milk and a good mystery novel anyway.”

Logan has to laugh at that claim, especially since his wife follows it up by scratching at the spot on her neck, just behind her ear: the spot which—properly treated—tends to produce a particularly strong reaction.

He falls out of their little game and leans back in his chair. “Well that explains why you’re making me stay in a separate villa.”

“It’s for the _cover_. We'd be terrible con-bait if we used our real names, and it's only for a day or two.” She scratches her neck a little more vigorously and lowers her voice to add, “It’s not like it stopped you last night.”

“ _What_?” He’s the picture of innocence. “I forgot my toothpaste.”

“You could’ve got some from the concierge.”

“Sure, but I’d much rather get some from you—”

“Shhhh, here comes the kid.”

“I was talking about toothpaste.”

Veronica clears her throat and adjusts the rim of her hat just as Chloe rejoins them at the table. The kid glides into her seat, smoothing out her yellow sundress as she says, “Sorry—work called. I told them I was on a personal day, but they don't care.” She leans over the table and tries to grab Logan’s drink, but he swats her hand away. “That was quite a performance,” she continues in an undertone, “I had no idea you were such an actress, Aunt Veronica. Mom would be totally jealous if she knew.”

“Cover names,” chides Veronica habitually—though the veranda’s thinned out by now, as the lunch crowd has waned. “The good news is, your client should be off the hook soon. Looks like you were right about the clubhouse manager funneling info. We’ve got Alex’s fingerprints...” she jerks her chin at his now empty crystal tumbler on the table, “...and it won’t be a problem getting Sophia’s, since she obviously has trouble keeping her hands off things that don’t belong to her.” Veronica drums her fingernails on the tabletop, and Logan doesn’t bother hiding his smirk. “One of them is bound to be a match for the prints on the bag planted in Nora’s locker.”

“You really think it’s Alex and Sophia, huh?” asks Chloe.

“Mmm, and not an isolated incident either,” says Veronica. “I’m guessing at dinner tonight, Mr. Selden will tell me about one of his charities that _coincidentally_ caters to one of my interests. If we were staying another week, I might have time to unravel the whole scheme...” She catches Logan’s look and carries on, “...but that’ll all come out once we prove they stole the diamonds and framed poor Nora.”

“I don’t get it,” says Chloe, shaking her head. “Both their families are loaded. They’ve been members here their whole lives.”

“Family money is finite, when no one bothers learning how to make more of it,” says Logan. “Which is good for you to remember in case your mother ever fulfills her destiny and manages to spend all of yours.” 

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Dad’s syndicated, and I went to law school, Uncle Logan. I think I’ll be _fine_.”

“Cover names,” Veronica hisses again.

“Yes, Aunt Veronica,” Chloe chants, and her subsequent _oops_ is so false that Logan once again wonders if she might be genetically related to him after all. His niece gets to her feet, “Well, I gotta head into the office for a little while. You two geriatrics will be okay while I’m gone?”

“We’ll manage,” says Veronica dryly. Chloe sends her a wink, instead of the hug or kiss-on-the-cheek that would serve as farewell under less covert circumstances. She pulls a face at Logan, and then is on her merry way.

Chloe is a good kid, all things considered: seems to have beaten the odds of her unfortunately stacked Punnett Square and turned into a genuinely decent person, _imagine that._ Though, she and her brother do tend to drag Veronica into a variety of shenanigans that Logan, at sixty-three, could just as well do without.

He’s reflecting on this fact when Veronica catches his attention again with a brisk command, “You need to go away, too. You can’t hang around me the whole time or it’ll look suspicious. See if you can get a tee time or something.” The glass with Alex’s fingerprints has disappeared from the table, and Logan would bet good money that it’s resting securely in his wife’s handbag. He smiles fondly at her and decides he doesn’t care if it matches their cover: with her hat and clothes and ruby earrings, Veronica is done-up unusually elegant—like a cranky, streetwise Grace Kelly.

“You just want to get rid of me so you can spend more time with your boy-toy,” he says.

“Yep, you’ve caught me. You’re being replaced by a half-rate haircut trying to hustle me out of a fortune that doesn’t exist.”

“Knew it.”

“Get out of here.”

“Fine.” He removes his hat and fans himself, considering. “Maybe I’ll go for a swim in the pool—see if I can hook a generous old widow of my own.”

He can practically _hear_ her eyes narrowing. “Who are you calling _old_ there, Farmer McGregor?”

Logan pushes up out of his chair, away from the table. He repositions his hat, then collects his book and tucks it under his arm. Bows deferentially, “It was so nice to meet you, Mrs. Redgrave.”

“ _Stop_.”

Again he has to check the reflex to make physical contact as he walks past her. He resists that impulse, but then doesn’t quite manage to curtail the next one. “Y’know I think I left my eye cream in your kit bag...”

Of course he can’t see her full reaction from this angle, but he does note the subtle tightening of the muscles in her shoulders. He imagines her pinching her lips together, some midpoint between annoyed, amused, and attracted. After a moment, she makes up her mind: “I... Ten o’clock. Use the path by the creek so no one sees you.”

He click his tongue once. “Yes, dear.”

Logan has scarcely made it three steps, however, before a hair-raising scream echoes across the patio. He’s back at Veronica’s side at once—also as a matter of reflex—while his wife pushes out of her chair, ready—as always—to head straight towards any and all forms of commotion.

The source of said commotion makes itself known quickly: one of the club employees, a young woman in a white tennis dress, staggers up the steps to the patio from the lower level, visibly panic-stricken as she crashes into one of the veranda waiters. “Somebody—somebody call the police!” shouts the girl, as the handful of guests remaining on the terrace start crowding toward her (Veronica, predictably, making her way to the front). “There’s—I found—I saw...” The girl’s struggling to catch her breath, “—in the storage closet—down there…” She points to the lower terrace, and her hand is shaking, “there’s a _body!_ It’s Phillip... the man-man-manager... he’s—I think he’s _dead!_ ”

Gasps, cries, shrieks—the insanely wealthy are a histrionic bunch.

Veronica is ahead of all the others—Logan included, though not by much—halfway to the descending flagstone staircase before she remembers herself and pulls to a stop. Turns and finds Logan and has the devastatingly charming nerve to look faintly guilty. She tugs her sunglasses down below her chin (doubtless, the better to bat her eyelashes at him) and casts about for something to say—then falters and frowns. Logan doesn’t know what’s funnier: that _she_ believed they were actually going to make their vacation schedule or that she thinks _he_ believed it.

She looks apologetic, but it comes out as, “You know I think you’re right about the painting. Hallway by the guestroom. Absolutely.”

Logan rolls his eyes and reaches over to flick the brim of her ridiculous hat. “ _A favor for the kid,_ she tells me...”

“I mean it this time. We can put that ugly clock you like in the dining room...”

“...Our familial favors have a _body count_.”

“So did our high school field trips,” Veronica points out. Then she turns on her sensible-sling-backed flat and resumes her trek toward the lower terrace, a presumably dead body, and the certain-derailment of Logan’s vacation.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you just watch Murder She Wrote and decide to fic, IDK


End file.
